


In The Hangar

by honestlyfrance



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Gives That Hug, Captain America Sam Wilson, Dancing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sam Wilson Feels, Sam Wilson Needs a Hug, Swearing, Thigh Holsters man..., Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestlyfrance/pseuds/honestlyfrance
Summary: There were more instances like these when their body proximity was bordering on questioning and head-butting, legs flying and swinging, face scrutinized, with a light sheen of sweat decorating their bare skin, clothes soaked in bodily fluids, and Wilson swore his lip throbbed at a sudden numbness but damn Barnes looked damn good looking at him like that and it’s getting hard to breathe when they’ve been doing this for— What? Two hours?orSam and Bucky give each other what they need.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	In The Hangar

**Author's Note:**

> another sambucky bingo square filled ages ago!! the square is "Training," obviously :D hope y'all like this one!

There’s an empty gym in the Avengers compound that stood in its lonesome on the vast field of a property this non-profit organization owns—it stood at a great height you wouldn’t be able to see the beams, and even then the wide skylight is lighting up the uneven floor; the hanging lights doubles as trapeze and the beams above was an obstacle course on its own; enough of that, the first uneven floor was full of weights, the second uneven floor was a treadmill course designed by the Avengers members to their weaknesses, and the third uneven floor was all mat and nothing else; the only entrance was the double doors ( if you call the skylight an exit, you’re a flyer ) and the east wing was a climbing wall full with different sized rocks and incredulous edges and turns, and the opposite wall was floor to ceiling mirror windows, showing the expanse and great distance of the field from the Avengers house. In all of this space you’d think it would be the most used, but no—the Avengers never dared to take it away from the few who sported in it, and even then the ones who do never really exercise or train much. 

These people’s definition of exercise and train were different from the rest of them.

Steve Rogers’s definition was: to eat as much as his metabolism is and to take on the punching bag as if he were to wake up and couldn’t go back to sleep.

Natasha Romanoff’s idea of train and exercise was: to read, a lot, especially people; there’s this certain tree in the woods where one would bring their rifle or handgun and fired at the same spot over and over again in different angles, distances, and positions until it has cleaned out a hole in the trunk. 

Bucky Barnes’s definition was scrutinized, nonetheless: to rest one’s mind, meaning, slack off as one can until someone asks to spar with you—only then one is exercised right after.

Sam Wilson’s definition: to run the distance between these distances at four in the morning for an hour, then to lift weights and bench press against an ungodly height on the climbing wall. 

Wilson’s definition seems more like training and exercise than three super-soldiers, and they have the right to question the only people who frequent the far away gym. Tony Stark has always wanted to create that space into some other useful thing, but even then, everyone agreed it was fun to bet on who would pin who first: Natasha or Barnes? Rogers isn’t happy with the fact they don’t bet on him, but there was a time that Rogers and Barnes sparred and Rogers barely even hit him ( Barnes annoyed him so much that Rogers cussed him out ). Wilson is still no-nonsense with his training, and Natasha spars with him; Stark doesn’t want to ruin Natasha’s fun. 

Two years later, Wilson’s sparring partner is leaving for some bullshitted vacation; Natasha sat him down and told him, “—I’ve accumulated so many vacation days that Tony won’t stop pestering me. I’ll be gone for five years at the most. Don’t miss me too much.“ 

"This about which?” Wilson had asked, his voice was so low and soft that Natasha almost backed away. They were in her room, only trusting Wilson to enter it unprompted with a few quiet people who wouldn’t take her trust as points. 

Natasha deadpanned. “I don’t know how to say it so gently." 

"I’m not going anywhere. Although, I have this thing later seven with Scott, so—you’ve got the whole dawn and afternoon with me." 

_Covers my ass,_ Wilson cussed in his head as he stroked another kick to the punching bag enveloped in red energy being emitted by Wanda Maximoff who sat by the side, watching him with intent eyes. _She hasn’t even told me her real last name._

"Romanova. It’s pretty obvious,” Wanda said, snapping Wilson to a complete stop. “Natasha is a diminutive of Natalia…” Wilson threw a strong punch and it made the punching bag fly at a high radius, making him turn around and lie down beside her as they waited for it to settle back down— again. “… or Natalie. I don’t know. It’s just basic Russian names.”

The double doors cracked open and made a sickening creak as it closed. Wilson and Wanda snapped to the doors to reveal Barnes jogging into the room with a duffel bag of his own, setting it on the few benches beside Wilson’s bag. Barnes nodded at them and gave them a small “Hey, Wanda. Sam.” and proceeded to scale the climbing wall without a harness, aiming to reach the harness Scott Lang left hanging in the air ( He shrunk himself mid-air and wanted to prove something to Rhodey ). Barnes wore a shirt and sweatpants, his hair cut short previously.

Things have changed since Natasha left the compound three months ago. 

Wilson sighed as he caught Wanda giving him a look, and no sooner had he heard in his head her voice: _Him_. 

Wilson swatted at her as he stood up. “Cooperate with me, Wanda.” He said as he began punching the sides of the punching bag, occasionally glancing at Barnes with Wanda; Barnes was halfway, and he’s breathing heavily as he rested there. 

“I don’t spar, _Sam_ ,” Wanda shoots him a look. “I do…” and she moves her hand to create a ball of power, striking to the punching bag to strike Wilson as hard as she could throw him across the room.

Wilson saw it and kicked it, immediately slowing it down—Another punch shook the chains and the punching bag began to slowly swing on its axis; left, right! He threw punches, then a left kick just to see it shake once more. Wanda wasn’t helping. 

Wanda scoffed. “I’m _helping_. I just don’t spar, and even then, I only know the basic punching and kicking." 

Wilson snickered as he caught the punching bag, holding it by its side as he swayed. "If that’s the only thing to know, you’re gonna meet your end punching and kicking." 

Wanda shrugged, smirking. "Good thing I have powers, huh? You only fly. ”

From across the room, Barnes cleared his throat to get their attention. Wanda and Wilson watched Barnes dangle from a height, the harness around the man’s waist and across his chest and hips, his feet locked down on two rocks as his body flipped over, his arms out in the open. Barnes said, “He’s also an expert in knife combat. Expect that bitch to enter a gunfight with a knife and leave with a gun.”

Wanda hummed in approval, nodding at Wilson. “Hey, that reminds me.”

 _Fucking ask him out, or I will. He smothers Natasha, just imagine him with you._ Wanda’s voice echoed in Wilson’s head, urging him to groan as he cleared all thoughts from his head. _I’ll ask him to be your sparring partner._

The mental image of Barnes spinning Wilson down on the mat was enough to make Wanda laugh, her ringing delight echoing off the walls; the mental image in Wilson’s head was then distorted by Wanda, forcing Wilson to imagine Barnes and him, sweaty and panting in a silent and empty Gym at the middle of the night, moonlight streaming in, and Barnes mouths something like I—

Wilson screamed, “ _Fuck_!” He hit the punching bag with all his might and watching the slow return of the dummy was already pushing right on the edge. Huffing in defeat, cursing under his breath, he turned around and watched Barnes hang at the top, Barnes’s forehead against the wall as he was now in a tight slant above him. 

Only one person knew that Wilson had this thing with Barnes, and of course it was going to be the one who can manipulate and read minds; Wanda made sure not to tell a soul, and she was successful at it, and she’s been an angel for him ever since Natasha left the compound. 

Watching Barnes then became a routine for Wilson and Wanda. Every day, Wilson and Wanda came over to the Gym to throw a few punches on “ _Ol Reliable Dummy_ ” as Rogers affectionately called the lone punching bag on the third uneven floor, and Barnes, without fail, would come in after lunch to hang around on the climbing wall, standing on the wall as if he was Spider-Man, and Wilson would just stop and watch him, Wanda being the angel she is produced the mimicking the sound punches on leather so Barnes wouldn’t turn around. Even when the two did call out to Barnes, Barnes wouldn’t look back; he would just hang around, eyes closed, lips parted, and feel as if one were just floating in a pool. 

It was one chilly morning, before the break of dawn, that something changed in their routine.

Wilson was in his shorts and a sweater, jogging up and down the stairs as fast and quietly as he could; this was his usual warm-up exercise, yet he woke up earlier than usual, for the clocks read a quarter to three, and his drowsiness left him as soon as he read the time. There was no use to coming back to bed, but it will soon give him time to take that fifty-minute shower he always wanted to have after his training. 

After ten rounds on the stairs, he patted his sweat away with a towel, and with a water bottle in his hand ( the one he used to bring on late-night missions as the Falcon; the one in his room), the lights in the hallway began to light up the darkness of the floor. There was a whisper as if a female, saying: “Good morning, Captain Falcon,” and Wilson entered the elevator that would bring him a floor down, then he would take another hallway that leads to another building; the bridge was three floors high and lead to the labs.

Wilson tapped on the glass as he walked down the hallway, the lights automatically reacting to his body movement. “Morning Tony, Bruce, What time did you wake up this time?” He said, eyeing the two who were in their barest sleepwear, tinkering around on a table. He slowed down his pace to watch them for a moment.

“Just woke up,” Stark said, glancing up before putting on his goggles. “two hours ago maybe. You missed Bruce’s mess— It was amazing.”

Bruce Banner only groaned as he moved to another table where papers were spread about. Wilson nodded, humming. 

Wilson slowed to a jog as the automatic doors then led him to a barren hangar. He jogged down the winding staircase as he ran the expanse of the hangar as he waited for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to open up the grate, and he took a moment to breathe as it was halfway, watching the moonlight enter the dim area. He walked over outside and stood where the concrete and grass met, pulling his leg behind him as he said, “What time is it?" 

"Three-hundred, sir." 

"Shit, I’ve got time." 

He placed his water bottle down and started jogging towards the faraway gym that was on the horizon. F.R.I.D.A.Y. lit up the lights in the gym as well as the sprinklers around the area, and some more lights in the distance. He made sure to track his breathing, and to take slow breaths as he jogged at an easy pace, and before he knew it, he was on his third round.

As the open hangar was behind him at a far distant, Wilson yelled a series of profanities as he closed his eyes, heaving as he let the weight of stress relieve off him. Taking up the mantle of Captain America, in a world where Captain America was targeted by the government, was a painful experience that rejected everything Wilson thought was over for him. He had to listen to authority? _Damn, sure, if it means regaining Steve Rogers’s name and image._ He had to entertain press now? _Alright, if it means gaining positive attention towards the Avengers._ He had to limit his flying out of all things? _Okay, if that means he can choose who could be on his team_. It was difficult to say, and Wilson kept yelling as he ran now towards the gym, reaching it within seconds.

Wilson paced for a bit with his head in between his hands before kicking the dirt, all the rage pouring out on him in a series of actions. He then begins to spar some imaginary figure, twisting and turning as he threw a series of kicks and intricate knife handling. There was a moment he pulled out his four-inch knife out of his thigh holster and proceeding to maim the air, flipping and throwing it around, slicing and attacking whatever pressure he had on his shoulders. 

He lied down on the dewy grass as the image of sparring with someone popped in his head with a recognizable face—it was Natasha, sue him; she was the one who taught him the additional knife techniques he’s accumulated, as well as the martial arts and taekwondo she urged to teach him. _Trust me. You need it._ Ah, he could still hear her cocky voice.

He then started his journey back to the hangar, committed on continuing his one-hour jogging in the field, but when the sight of the hangar came to view, with the lights inside bright with an orange tinge, and the sound of classical music bellowing and echoing within, Sam slowed down to a walk as his eyebrows knitted in confusion. 

No one used that hangar, as far as he was concerned. If anything, it was just an excuse for the mechanics to have their lab on the second floor where they can see the expanse of the field and horizon. When he came closer, there was a small speaker in the middle of the room, and there was the music coming from. Sam barely approached it, stopping below the grate as his head jerked towards the doorway above the staircase. 

Barnes stopped before a moment, his eyes widening at the sight of the man on the ground, not recognizing him at first but gaping once Barnes recalled Stark and Banner’s warning. "It’s you,” Barnes said.

Wilson was about to yell how he was the one with the rights to use the hangar, seeing that no one was using it, but now he remembers the unusual routine he fell upon. He didn’t usually wave at Stark and Banner, it was usually waving at two giant ants who roamed around the Lang Laboratory as guards—

“Shit. I took the wrong hallway,” Wilson groaned as he turned away from Barnes, massaging his temple. 

Barnes barked out laughter, his steps echoing in the barren vastness as he walked down the stairs, two mugs in his hands. “Yeah, well good thing Stark warned me, or else I wouldn’t have brought you your coffee. I know how much you hate to miss it on the counter,” he said, walking briskly towards the man as he, too, began to walk towards him until they were now in the middle of the hangar. “so… I, uh, brought it here.”

“What are you doing here?” Wilson asked, taking the mug off his hands.

Barnes shrugged. “I don’t know, I usually stargaze but you’re on my path.”

It made sense now. The faraway lights, making Wilson wonder why it was darker than usual, and the sprinklers being the only sound in the night, it was perfect for stargazing. Wilson shifted his weight as he sipped his coffee, eyes settling Barnes with a raised eyebrow.

Barnes stuttered for a moment. “Um, I-I, also, I, uh, sometimes…” he raised an eyebrow, “dance?” his eyebrows furrowed as if he was confused by his own words. “with Tasha? But, she’s been gone, so, I just entertain myself with climbing, you know." 

Wilson raised his eyebrows, lowering his mug. "I didn’t know you two knew how to dance. What do you do? Ballet? She said she used to dance.”

“Yes, yes,” Barnes chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “It was all we knew… since, um,” he lowered his gaze towards the ground, but Wilson still saw his faraway gaze. “Well, anyway, she’s left, and with that my partner." 

"Sucks, right? She used to train with me and now I got an idle punching bag who doesn’t know how to miss a kick,” Wilson snorted, and Barnes was much more relaxed after that. 

“Sucks, yeah. She was the one who usually led, and sometimes she’d bring in training— punching and kicking me as I try to miss— She’s really…" 

"Caring,” Wilson shrugged, finishing Barnes’s sentence for him. “One could say she’s unnecessary, but really, her lessons saved me on missions.”

“My lessons,” Barnes whispered, but it echoed in the hangar. “I taught her before…”

Wilson nodded, understanding full well where that came from. Wilson took a step back after realizing he knew more of Barnes than the woman Wilson knew more than five years; it was only a year from where they stood, and Wilson felt like screaming. 

“You know a lot about knife handling, hmm,” Wilson murmured, but the proximity between them allowed them to hear the other loud and clear. “Can you teach a few tricks?”

Barnes glanced at Wilson’s eyes and saw the glint, straightening his posture as he looked him in the eye. “You flexible? My partners usually are, and that’s best to work with.”

Wilson nodded, cracking a grin. “Don’t underestimate me, James, I took up ballet too when I was young,” he moved aside and set his mug beside the speaker before crossing his ankles and spread his arms.

Barnes scoffed, turning around with a smile that made Wilson’s eyes glint. “Oh, is that so? I gotta bring you to size then—” he made his way towards Wilson, placing his foot firmly into place as the other gently pointed itself to the ground; Barnes held Wilson’s hand in his as he wormed his arm around his waist, smirking. “—I’m a great dancer before HYDRA taught me ballet, I used to dance every night or so, with a date or two or such." 

Wilson hummed, gazing into Barnes’s blue eyes, in search of something. "You have a knife on you?" 

Barnes winked. "Didn’t see my belt, I see?”

“A belt? I thought you’d have a thigh holster.”

“A holster? You— I— How’d you hide a thigh holster on you?”

Wilson kicked Barnes in the balls and twisted the arm he held behind the man’s back, pushing him down by the shoulder with a foot, flipping out his knife and bringing it to his neck, Barnes still recovering from doubling over. 

“Like this, baby,” Wilson mocked. 

Barnes kicked Wilson from behind, pulling out his knife from his body; Wilson saw it but was distracted. Barnes stood up and kicked Wilson in his side, throwing him over and making him land on his bottom as he slid, his knife leaving his person.

Wilson grunted as he caught himself, looking up at Barnes with a menacing grin; Barnes crossed his ankles and bowed. “Finally, someone who doesn’t hold back,” he said. 

Barnes licked his lips. “You still have to dance with me, αγαπώ,” and there was a chill running down Wilson’s spine as he heard _Love_ form from Barnes’s raspy voice.

“Let’s dance, _Soldat_.”

The two waited for the music, holding each other’s hand and a hand on the waist and shoulder, feet in a firm position, bodies aching to pin the other one down. 

“What time is it.”

“Shut up, Sam, and dance.”

Barnes threw a punch at Wilson’s abdomen, doubling him over; Barnes pulled out his knife only for Wilson to block it with two hands, then kicking him in his inner thigh, turning to kick him once more. A flash of punching and kicking commenced between them, both laughing and grinning at the other’s baffling speed and agility.

There was a point when Barnes twisted a leg to kick Wilson only for him to use it to support himself as he climbed on Wilson’s shoulders, making the man drop to the floor due to the weight; Barnes then took the opportunity to take the other man’s knife, turning on his back so Wilson’s head rested on his stomach, his right leg hooked under Wilson’s chin to choke him; Wilson only hit the leg several times until he patted abruptly, declaring Barnes the winner. 

Wilson also liked to confuse Barnes, knowing full well the man analyzes past combat sequences to execute the proper routine, Wilson charged at Barnes, shielding himself as Rogers does, then Barnes would mistakenly throw a metal punch, only for Wilson to catch his fist, twist it, knee t upward which would revibrate a satisfying _riiiiing_ ; Barnes who is still washed with worry and concern over Wilson would be caught off guard to Wilson’s sudden elbow at the face, the chest, and the abdomen, successfully disabling Barnes as he left the heaving man dropped lazily on the fall with a bewildered look. Barnes would say something under his breath before being helped up by Wilson, and they’d pose as if nothing had happened. 

There were more instances like these when their body proximity was bordering on questioning and head-butting, legs flying and swinging, face scrutinized, with a light sheen of sweat decorating their bare skin, clothes soaked in bodily fluids, and Wilson swore his lip throbbed at a sudden numbness but damn Barnes looked damn good looking at him like that and it’s getting hard to breathe when they’ve been doing this for— What? Two hours?

Barnes swung two opposite punches to Wilson who shielded himself as he took steps back; Wilson crouched and swung a leg at Barnes who jumped over it and kneed the other in the right abdomen; Wilson doubled over and Barnes took hold of his neck and gripped it there, bringing their faces close— One showed a subtle face gleaming with victory and worry while the other grunted and spat the other in the face. Barnes loosened his grip on Wilson and wiped his face.

“Aw, man, c’mon,” Barnes spoke; Wilson upper-punched him in the stomach, pulled on his flesh arm, pinned him down to lie on their stomachs, Wilson flattened on Barnes’s back and the other made no move to fight back.

“What, sleepy-head,” Wilson heaved as he caught sight of Barnes sly grin tugging at the corner of his flushed lips. “What’s so funny? Your pain, or your shame?”

Barnes took a moment to soak up Wilson’s weight, to look the other in the eyes and let themselves relax at the moment that they lead themselves into, saying: “What can’t you do? You’re impossibly unstoppable, Cap, look at you—”

Wilson immediately stood up, taking a few steps away as he set his hands on his waist. “No. Let’s go— You tired? We can take a break, jackass,” he crossed his foot behind the other anyway, his chin raised high as his eyes scanned the ceiling of the hangar. There were faint crickets in the background, and the music leveled down and seemed to finally stabilize in his ears; the sky was still dark however, and Wilson’s mind seemed to calm down. “Come on—” Wilson spread his arms with palms raised to the sky, his eyes clenched closed, trying to relax his nerves. “—Take me.”

Wilson didn’t feel Barnes’s person in the room, and he almost let himself resign in the fact that the other would eventually leave him.

Barnes’s body was pressed against Wilson’s, taking the Falcon’s hands in his own, and bringing them close to his chest. Wilson shakily exhaled all the stress of the previous months before exiting his body little by little, his body frigid and cold like a stone, eyes refusing to open in fear of seeing something he wouldn’t like. _Or wouldn’t like to believe it was real_. Barnes was not a vocal person, so when Barnes had spread their arms once again, turning Wilson gracefully to face each other, their faces barely centimeters away, Wilson knew that the air between them spoke enough of what was needed to be said.

Barnes pulled Wilson close and closed the proximity between their chests, left hands intertwined and the right tightly around the other’s waist, doing everything so wrong _but it felt right at the moment_ ; they didn’t dance entirely, neither one swaying to the soft melody of a piano, a violin the background maybe, they couldn’t decide, nor could they decide to listen fervently to the noise of the night.

“Sam.”

Wilson had his eyes opened, dry and tearing at how long he stared at the floor behind Barnes; he blinked several times, getting his senses back together. “I’m here,” he whispered.

“Okay.”

They let their muscles relax for a moment, their hearts as well, in the arms of the other. They could do it the next morning; they have the rest of their lives to dance and be together. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @francehonestly


End file.
